


Furious

by Ellienerd14



Category: Class (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Detained set from the perspective of the villian, POV Second Person, Some references to minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 23:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18486490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellienerd14/pseuds/Ellienerd14
Summary: A different viewpoint on 'Detained' - the story told by an angry prisoner on the day it was finally freed.-You have always been falling. Or maybe this is the start of it. There is not much of you left to remember when it began.But, you notice the change, a slight breeze, a blip in the infinite burning around you.(And you fall.)





	Furious

**Author's Note:**

> **[Inspired by this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6183094) **
> 
> This is a little different from what I typically write but I found it really fun to write! I really wanted to write the Class kids from an outsider's perspective, so I hope this is interesting!

**_“Nothing changes instantaneously: in a gradually heating bathtub you'd be boiled to death before you knew it.” -_ ** **_Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale_ **

 

* * *

 

_ Furious _ . 

You are furious.

You are falling. Or rising. But it’s fast, unpredictable, unnerving.

You have always been falling. Or maybe this is the start of it. There is not much of you left to remember when it began. 

But, you notice the change, a slight breeze, a blip in the infinite burning around you. 

You fall 

and fall 

 

and fall 

  
  


and f a l l...

  
  


 

 

 

You land; heavy, shattering the ground. There is a pull of energy, you make out noise, light, darkness. 

You feel something, something new, something old. 

But mostly, you feel furious. The burning may have stopped, but the anger is left, like an infection you cannot fight off. 

Why try? Wherever you are, you still alone, still trapped. 

Still punished- punished for what?  _ (There’s a glimmer of a woman begging, a heavy sensation in your phantom hands, she screams, this is why-) _

Now you can no longer hear the thunderous nothingness of space, there is a different noise. 

One you are hearing for the first time. 

_ Voices.  _

The voices are speaking a language you do not understand. There is something to make out in the tone, but what? You’re missing something. You need a translator. A mutual understanding that transcends language. 

  
  


Time passes. 

The voices make more shapes, more tones, more nothing. 

It is so dark. 

Then there is… something. A sensation as something looks at you. 

More things. More people. Not your people  _ (dead, they’re dead, oh gods you forgot that they were dead)  _ \- others. 

You think they may be children. 

 

When they touch you, it is like the burning begins again. 

There’s so much, too much, flooding into your head. A light amongst the darkness, so bright you want to shield yourself. 

It is messy, inside this person's head, so loud, holding on to so much, thinking about nothing, everything. 

Then you feel it, amongst the overwhelming feelings, the  _ fury _ . 

Just a spark, a hint at his burning rage, and the pair of you are one. 

You have been silent for so long, that when you find a voice, you twist it into ugly words. 

Fury is so gratifying. 

 

You fall once more and the whiteness, the light, the strange translucent memories are ripped away. 

You do not care. 

Now you can understand what they say. 

_ Worry. Stop. Anger. Not fair.  _

_ (It’s not fair,  _ a woman you loved once screams in your head,  _ I didn’t do anything!)  _

They fear you. Yet you feel no shame. 

Fear is the most useful of tools. Second only to fury. 

Fury of a teenage boy,  _ not fitting in, can’t speak my own language, can’t talk to pretty boys, she shouldn’t know, they pretend not to know, it’s dangerous, it’s not fair, I hate it here,  _ enough of it to overlap, to allow you to understand. Weak moments for him, because you can feel the prickle of shame. But, shame is of no use to you. 

Oh but his fury, the hints of it, is a weapon if wielded right. 

Next time, you can use it to kill them. 

 

You have trapped them. Or the prison has. You are in a prison. You were falling through it. 

You can’t remember what you have done.  _ (But it has something to do with her, the ghost in your own mind, the wisps of a memory amongst all the hate.)  _

There is heavy emptiness around you. They want to run but there is nowhere to go. You would laugh at their fruitless attempts, if you had the mouth for it. 

 

Rushing into your head: the light. 

Not  _ his _ light. Someone else. A child.  _ A girl.  _

You have a grip on her better this time, you travel through her head, seeking the anger, the guilt; something you can use. 

Her memories are stronger, in colour, but not quite right. Too flat, too out of focus, too quiet. 

You are quiet, there is no voice to steal, even if you can make her move her lips and say meaningless things. 

Or just  _ mean _ things.

Oh, but she is so clever. She demands questions of you, and you take her answers too, if who her friends are _ (not her friends, they don’t even like her, oh to be so young, so scared-)  _ how many, where they are. 

_ Earth,  _ you think, before she forces answers from you. 

_ I am dangerous,  _ you taunt,  _ hold on to me and I will burn you, child of Earth.  _

They ask who you are, demand it, as if you have a name. You  _ had _ one, once, but no one has spoken it in years. Lost even to you. 

_ I am trapped,  _ you hiss,  _ I am the rock you speak of, I am alive, I can hurt you, child. Are you- _

 

They pull the pair of you apart, but you understand now. Guilt is more than a mutual language, but a door, an escape.

One you will use, no matter the cost.

 

They hide, or try to, even if there is nothing but space and time, or perhaps, neither. 

You wait, you listen, you learn. 

They plot. A way out, a rescuer, a hero, a villian, a teacher. So many ideas, but you know better, you know there is no way out. Even if you can’t remember how long you have been trapped, you know there is no escape. 

Each plan is discussed but the children only consider each idly. 

_ (You’ve killed children before,  _ you remember,  _ and her, you killed her too, but she is still so out of focus. Nameless. Faceless. Just a pleading voice over and over-)  _

 

You feel his uncertainty before he even reaches out. Another boy. There’s three of them, you saw it in the watery memory of the youngest one. 

When he touches, connects, becomes you, there is a fight. His mind is closed off, he resists your probing. 

But in the end, you find it, a weak spot, unguarded, find the girl, face made up, hair dark, strange clothes splattered with blood. Then another girl, with pale skin and soulful eyes. 

_ Tell her,  _ you whisper, forcing the words to his lips,  _ say the words, it’s the truth.  _

He tells the girl with soulful eyes words she despises, powerful eyes, and you see the world through his eyes for a moment. So bright. So chaotic. So warm. 

Then the youngest child shouts, demands answers, twists the truth on you again. You pour it all into the vessel and he falls. 

The feeling is not unfamiliar, of breaking someone, taking their strength. 

The soulful eyes remind you of the woman in your memories, in your confession. 

Her eyes, however, were never full of love, only  _ fear _ . 

 

You feel the anger crawl under their skin, twist in their veins, beat in their hearts. There is so much noise now, no more strategy, no more silence, just ugly words and the building pressure of resentfulness. 

This is how it started before, with the others, before the killing began. 

You wonder which will survive the longest. 

You wonder how far the loneliness with drive the victor. 

 

The girl with soulful eyes is next. 

Her mind is the most vibrant of all of them. The memory is fully defined, no fragile wisps around the edges. You feel the solidness of the wood she scratches as she stares across a courtroom. 

_ (No one was left to testify against you, no one was left to point fingers, just strangers-)  _

There is weight to this memory, two paths that depended upon the testament of a child. She opens her mouth but you steal her voice. 

_ Confess,  _ you shout, loud enough to shake the whole room, loud enough to be finally  _ heard _ . 

There is so much energy, more than the rest of the children, that you demand it again,  _ confess girl,  _ you hiss, _ tell the truth, you don’t love him, you never can, confess, confess, confess- _

The girl with soulful eyes fights, but she says the words that break his heart, and you feel his hurt, her hurt, the pain. 

They ask questions and you answer with your rediscovered voice, taunt them.  

You do not notice the unfamiliar blood and the irregular heart beats until her soulful eyes flutter shut. 

 

There is a long wait, in which you feel three quicken heart beats, one fluttering, one split between two people. 

Their fury only grows, like a flame soon to consume the world  _ (or a house, now covered in the stains of a woman who begged and begged-)  _ as you listen. 

A single child is left. You know they will try, if they don’t kill each other first, to use him to find an escape. 

You have no answers left for them. But if they ask, at least you may speak again, if only for a final taunt. 

She wouldn’t like this, the woman in the back of you mind. You think she would offer advice, if it was the real woman, but when you think back to her, all you can hear is her screams. 

_ (Once, you loved her.)  _

 

The final child reaches for you and his mind is full of blue. 

You see more in his head than the others, he lets you see, an entire life of suppressed anger blinks thorough his mind.  _ Don’t want to be a king, don’t want to do a speech, can’t do this, stop.  _ There is pain there, unlike any you have seen. 

Then it is dark, the curl of shadow, that consumes a blue world. Follows him to a lighter one, twists into a towering figure, than into the shape of a girl with soulful eyes and heavy blades. 

_ You think you can handle the guilt of the Prince of Rhodia? _

You need his guilt, because it is so strong, that every wave of fury is paused, falls flat in comparison. You have killed hundreds. 

He has killed more, over and over, in his mind alone. 

_ Confess,  _ you hiss,  _ say it _ . 

He fights harder than the broken boy or the girl with soulful eyes. He holds on with impossible strength, forces himself through your mind, does not let a harsh truth escape his lips. 

He chooses a kind truth, a light amongst the darkness, and even as you try to make it ugly, his voice is calm, serene, in control. 

_ I love you. It's the truth.  _

There is a weight of a dead world against it, yet the strength he uses to hold onto a simple truth gives such strength. And you see an opening. 

At last, there is someone guiltier than you. 

You want to thank him, for the freedom, for the falling to stop, for making her voice silent. 

You tell him he will murder you.

 

And then, there is a moment when your name becomes clear in your mind again. 

And then, you see her eyes once more, softened, before you stole their light. 

And then, a prince of a last planet squeezes. 

And then, he kills you.

 

* * *

 

_ You are no longer falling, or rising, or being punished.  _

_ You are no longer furious.  _

_ You are forgotten, your only legacy the scattered remains of a prison upon a classroom floor and an equally scattered friendship group.  _

_ But, you are no longer detained.  _

**Author's Note:**

> I've been out the writing game for a while so I'd appreciate any comments! I'd really like to get back into writing Class fics again. (I'm also working on some for 'The Umbrella Academy' if that interests you too.) 
> 
> Usual tumblr promo - @bazwillendinflames


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